


Golden Years

by BoxWineConfessions



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Professor Otabek, Switching, Wedding Night, oldtayuri, otabek singing to Yuri, slow dances in the living room, trophy wife Yuri, viagra negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 00:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12569824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: Despite spending more than twenty years together, at thirty-nine and forty-one, Yuri and Otabek are newlyweds dealing with chronic joint pain, midlife crises, and increasingly long refractory periods. Although it cannot take the grays out of Otabek's hair and make it go back to coal black, nor can it reduce the number of bottles of wrinkle cream on Yuri's vanity, love may just be enough.





	Golden Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voslen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voslen/gifts), [machinewithoutfeelings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/machinewithoutfeelings/gifts).



> This contains brief mentions of my previous fic More Than This. If you haven't read it, most of this will make sense.

“Just fuckin order a bunch, if we don’t like them, we’ll just give them to Baldass and Fatass.”  Yuri huffs and flops backwards onto the sofa. He nudges his feet into Otabek’s lap, and without skipping a beat, Otabek moves his laptop to the armrest instead of on top of Yuri’s feet. “If they don’t work, we’ll especially give them away to them.” 

“Uhm,” Otabek removes one hand from the keyboard and rests it on Yuri’s bare ankle. He rubs his fingertip across Yuri’s skin in slow circles. “I’m more worried about them killing us if we get the wrong kind?” 

Okay, so maybe one of them needed to get it the fuck together and go to the doctor. Except, Yuri doesn’t know a goddamn thing about this, and neither does Otabek. All they know is that they can’t do what they used to. Otabek can’t pick him up and fuck him until he’s boneless, cum in his ass, and then fuck Yuri right away again in the shower. They can’t finger each other open and then take turns thrusting in, pulling out, and flipping each other over and using each other until they were both sore. They can’t cum over and over again until they lose count. It takes longer now. They have to go slower now. 

They still wanna go hard, and fast, and all night long. Once before bed just isn’t enough. He wants to do that until they’re both (even more) wrinkled and (even more) gray and gross because that’s how fucking hot Otabek is. He knows that Otabek feels the same way. 

Except, will the doctor even prescribe you Viagra when you’re 39? Can you just stride right in, and ask with a smile, “hey doc, can I have some boner pills?” Otabek  _ had _ an appointment, but he cancelled it. 

So  _ Yuri _ had an appointment, but then he  _ had _ to go to Sapporo for an ice show, no joke…He just never really wanted to reschedule. Because his dick  _ does _ work, just not fast enough, and would doctor Omarov be able to make that distinction? Or, would he think he was just another floppy dicked, middle aged loser? 

“Fine,” Yuri snaps the laptop balanced on his lap shut. “We’ll figure this out later.” 

“You could reschedule your appointment.”  Otabek’s voice is stern and unwavering. He doesn’t accuse, nor does he provide comfort. He’s never talked down to Yuri, not once in over twenty years of friendship, love, whatever they’ve got. They both know that he’s got a bum knee and that it hurts to spend more than a few minutes at once on the ice. He already knows he has only so many more mornings of being unable to get out of bed before Otabek puts his foot down. They both know that he only has so much time left to act before he causes irreparable damage. 

“I’ve got to get ready.” He looks up at Otabek for a moment before propelling himself off of the sofa. Even after all this time, even when he’s slightly pissed off at Otabek, looking at him is still one hell of a view.

* * *

 

In the rink, Otabek could never take to this role even when he’d formally retired, and Yuri still had a few seasons left in him. He was never one to braid his hair for a performance. He could never roll the silicone lint roller over Yuri’s costume. He could never roll Yuri’s shoulders back and rub the tension out of him. He couldn’t even pull him close for a kiss to ease the tension. Even when he no longer competed, just being in the rink made his blood run hot. The feeling of cold ice biting at his nose and the tips of his ears made him anxious and unable to focus. 

_ Here _ Otabek shines. He’s always nearby with exactly what Yuri needs: a sachet of cat treats, a brush, a catnip mouse. He’s always able to catch Yuri at just the right moment and smooth down his lapels and fix his lip gloss, but only after he tells him good luck and seals it with a kiss. 

Here, Otabek  _ typically  _ shines, but even now and then his own iron willed consistency is challenged.  Now the ragdoll section of the convention center is absolute chaos. Princess darted from the cage as Yuri was reaching for her, and now everyone in the area has started chasing her about. It was his fault really. He’s usually nearby with the leash in hand, but Farida had triple text him which he knew warranted a phone call, and he’d been taken from Yuri’s side. 

Otabek jogs across the show floor past row after row of brightly decorated cages to find Yuri bent down, his rear end sticking out from underneath a white table cloth. The image tugs at Otabek’s heart and makes his stomach feel sour with guilt. Yuri shouldn’t be crawling around on the floor like that given his physical condition. He’ll have to peel Yuri up off the floor and put him back upright. The image is inherently upsetting, because it is Yuri’s destiny to shine. There’s no reason that himself, or Yuri’s body, god, or this cantankerous creature should prevent him from it.

“Yuri dearest, do you need some help?” As he approaches, he notices Christophe Giacometti standing nearby. His own cat is in the arms of a man who cannot be more than twenty-five. “Let Johan help you, he’s quite nimble.” 

“Fuck off,” Yuri growls. 

Otabek interrupts, desperate to diffuse the situation.  “Yura,” he speaks softly. “I’m here.” 

Yuri emerges from the billowing white table cloth. His face is tinged red with anger. Otabek recognizes the glassy look in his eyes immediately as the strange combination of fear, panic, and anger that Yuri mashes together in split seconds before a performance and turns into something beautiful. 

“That fucker….” Yuri breaks his gaze before grabbing it again. “Beka,” he breathes in an exhausted sigh.  

Otabek kneels to the floor. The going is slow. He’d had rink time yesterday, and this morning he had intentions to run, and to stretch. Yuri had other plans. A black lace thong with the intention to make him forget that Yuri had cancelled a slew of doctor’s appointments. 

Otabek shoves his face underneath the tablecloth, and in the dark he can still make out Princess’ angry wide brown eyes. Otabek could root further underneath the table, but he knows better. He’s helped Yuri through several shows, and this isn’t the first time this has happened. 

Otabek lays upon his stomach. He extends his arms wide, and sings in a low aching timber. One that usually comes out only when he’s in the kitchen alone and has no use for a cat brushing about his feet begging to be stepped on, “fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars.” 

Princess responds in kind as if they really were back in the kitchen at home. She flops down onto her back and paws wildly at the air. 

“Let me see what spring is like, on Jupiter and Mars.” 

The cat writhes around on the carpet, taking momentary solace in Otabek’s voice. It’s no small miracle that she actually writhes in the correct direction. Yuri waits patiently, as Otabek croons she scoots closer, closer, and closer still.

“In other words...Hold my hand.” 

From the corner of his eye, he can see Yuri’s long arms stretch outward, and then he’s clasping his arms around the cat. 

Yuri grabs for her, and immediately starts swearing her name to filth. They work quickly, frantically, anything but seamlessly. Otabek straps the leash onto her harness. Yuri all but throws her out of his arms and into the travel cage, which Otabek zips up hastily.

“Fucking hell,” Yuri breathes in a mixture of exasperation and relief. 

“It’s always earned, isn’t it?” Otabek responds with a smile. 

While they wait their turn for the Ragdoll group to be called, Otabek runs damage control  best that he can. He brings Yuri a cup full of burned coffee from the urn leading into the conference center. For a moment, he considers smashing a packet of sugar into it to cut the bitter taste, but he knows Yuri.  He knows that Yuri would rather have the acrid black stuff, even if it burned on the way down like acid. 

Yuri accepts it, and in the harsh light of the convention center his clear coated nails shimmer. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Otabek responds. But his mind is already in autopilot. He fetches a new shirt, one that isn’t snagged by sharp Princess claws for Yuri from the car. He kisses Yuri square on the mouth even though he tastes like stale coffee.  He stands a respectful distance away from Yuri as he shows the cat to the judges, but snaps photos the entire time, wide angle, zoom, with the Nikon he got for his birthday. 

Yuri doesn’t have a hair out of place, and neither does Princess as he plops the cat down onto the table, cups her bottom with one hand, and agitates her with the tickler toy to get her to move about on the stand. Then, Yuri passes the cat off to the judges, who examine her for…whatever they’re looking for. Otabek isn’t particularly sure.

* * *

 

“There is an ice show next weekend,” Yuri says as he undoes his hair from the large tortoiseshell clasp at the crown of his head. He scratches his scalp with it, and then rests it in his lap. The engine of the Mercedes is quiet, and it gives Yuri more space to think than he’s used to. He can hear everything from the sound of the clip scratching against his scalp, to  Princess knocking around in her carrier. “Fucking Giacometti. Showing me up like that. Why the fuck is he even in Almaty? It’s random as shit.” 

“Well,” Otabek responds after a long silence. He throws the turn signal on, and then proceeds to talk over it. The sharp  _ click clak _ of the signal almost drowns him out. “He never medaled ahead of you on the ice.” 

“Yeah but Princess is….” Yuri huffs. 

“A bitch?” Otabek responds bluntly. 

“A-fucking men,” Yuri closes his eyes. He’s not exactly sure why he does this every fucking weekend. Is it worth it to spend all of his and Otabek’s money to fly first class to go to Moscow, St. Petersburg, Astana, all to show this little fur hag off to strangers? She never wins first, and frequently disappoints. 

He’s tried the others too. Chainsaw, and Brass-Knuckle, and BitchBoy. Except, Princess Organ Grinder has the very best face, and if he’s gonna win a ribbon it’s going to be because of her, and not the other assholes. 

“Maybe I should just fucking stop,” Yuri complains. 

At that Otabek shifts the car into a higher gear, and rests his hand on his knee. He speaks in the firm, non judgemental that he fell in love with decades ago. He knows that he’s not supposed to find comfort in it. He knows that he’s supposed to draw his own conclusions. Except, that alone makes Yuri feel better. After all, he’s still recovering from a former life as an athlete who was constantly pelted with unsolicited advice. 

“What did you tell me when I wanted to quit my Master’s program?” 

“That was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard.” But it’s not fucking like that. Yuri’s showing cats in three star hotel convention centers around Eastern Europe. It does nothing for no one except himself and his own ego. At least when he skated, he could lie and say that it was for the glory of Russia. 

“Doesn’t harm anyone Yura.” 

“Whatever, you’re just saying that because you have a career. Lecturers are respected. Those twats have to call you Mr. Altin, and turn their papers on time.” 

“They don’t Yura, and you know it.”  The hand on his knee tightens slightly. 

“Seriously though. Since we moved here, what is it that I do? I sit in a big ass apartment your parents bought in the nineties. I show cats. I vlog.” He shrugs. “That’s fucking it! That’s pathetic!” 

“You’re retired.” 

“Retirement is a fucking lie, and you know it. Retired at 27. That just means becoming a big fucking baby that doesn’t know what the fuck you’re doing at 28, and 29, and 30, and 31 and-“ 

“Yura,” Otabek’s voice is firm, and tells him just what he needs to hear implicitly, and without being spoken outloud. Otabek tells him to be quiet without pissing him off. 

“There’s an ice show next weekend,” Yuri repeats the statement in hopes of changing the subject. He hefts his leg up and tries to not let his boot scuff the dash. He unzips the side, and toes it off on the floorboard. Then, he hefts his other foot into his lap. This one will be much more difficult to remove since he’s pried off the other boot. “Omsk. Victor’s doing it.” 

“We going?” Otabek asks. It’s a loaded fucking statement. 

On one hand, if  he’s done anything right after bowing out of the competitive sphere, it’s keeping them both active in ice shows. That way, they aren’t dipping constantly into Otabek’s parent’s money. Although it’s no secret that they’d support them for forever because they have so much of it. Ice shows, plus ad revenue from vlogging, plus Otabek’s lecturer salary means it’s almost, kind of, sort of like they’re pulling their own weight. 

If you cross out the penthouse that’s been paid for, the Mercedes that was a gift, and the other Mercedes that was a gift…. 

On the other hand, Yuri feels the low ache in the base of his spine, and in his knees, and in his hips, and he fucking knows that the last thing he needs is to be out on the ice right now. 

“Nah,” Yuri huffs. He rests his hand upon Otabek’s which rests stock still on his thigh. “Let’s go down to city hall.” His lips curl into a smile, and he can see the white of his teeth in the reflection in the window. 

“Yura,” Otabek issues in stern warning. It’s not the first time it’s been brought up when one or both of them is in a particularly vulnerable state. Except this time, he’s absolutely, positively, certainly, almost for sure. 

“Let’s get married like it’s the Soviet days. Next Friday, right before City Hall closes. No Imam. No family, no friends. Just you and me.” Here’s the thing. Otabek first asked when he was seven-fucking-teen. Of course he said no. After that it just sort of, kind of, accidentally became this twenty year long game, where it never felt right, or they could never ask the other at the right time. 

For example, last time Yuri asked on Otabek’s 41 st when Otabek was puking in front of the bushes at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. Not the best time. 

Before that, Otabek suggested it when they were visiting one of the shrines in Hasetsu, and they were surrounded by a bunch of brats there on field trip. Take one in opportune moment, combined with Yuri’s insistence that they were fine just the way they were, and combine it Otabek’s contentment in Yuri’s contentment. Then, flip backward over the past twenty or more years and there it was. The long and short of why he and Otabek had never gotten around to getting married. 

But tonight there’s something about the way the soft purple light of twilight is dotted by streetlamps as they rush past in the car. There’s something about the way his knee aches. There’s something about the way Otabek sang to Princess in a low steady voice that was actually meant to soothe  _ him _ and not the fucking cat.   

It’s not some grand realization, “oh my fucking god I love you.” He had that years ago...He had that fucking decades ago. Thing is, he still has it sometimes, albeit on a smaller scale. He has them when Otabek is frantically trying to throw a cat off the bed mid hairball hack, or when Otabek picks him up at the airport when his flight gets in at two in the morning. It’s more of a general acceptance that he is in love and that he is lucky. 

With his sock clad feet pressed against the dashboard, he accepts that this is the trajectory their lives are going to take. 

“I mean it.” Yuri responds.

* * *

 

Yuri calls the specialist on Wednesday, and makes an appointment for the first week of November. Yuri has the call on speaker, and because of this he knows that they could’ve scheduled him for the last few days of October, but Yuri refused. He cited that he wanted Otabek to have a nice birthday. He wanted their vacation to be good, and didn’t want to be carrying crutches all around Spain. 

“Are you going to ask about?” Otabek’s mouth curls into a smile as he watches Yuri’s face pull into a contrasting frown. 

“You don’t fucking ask an orthopedic surgeon for boner pills asshole.” 

Otabek fires up the bike on Friday afternoon. They go for brunch at their favorite spot, and it’s so unbelievably mundane; it’s wonderful. Otabek pulls the chair out for Yuri. They order their usual. Two cappuccinos: one with sugar and the other without. Yuri orders poached eggs with prosciutto; Otabek orders dumplings. They sit at their usual spot, the last booth furthest back by the double doors that swing into the kitchen. 

Despite all of the  _ usuals _ , Otabek notices all of the things that are different. Instead of cleaning his plate like normal, Yuri barely picks at his food. Instead of sitting back, and drinking more coffee, Yuri tears at the paper napkin until Otabek asks for the check. 

His own behavior is knocked off kilter and slightly to the left. It took him three tries to get the bike started that afternoon when they were leaving the apartment. He stares at Yuri lovingly, and intently, but he cannot recall or recount a single word that he speaks. Dumbfounded, and lovestruck, he feels as if he is thirteen again in training camp.  He feels like he is eighteen again in Barcelona. From the moment that Yuri agreed to go on a date with him, be his boyfriend, move in with him, he simultaneously never believed that this day would come, but never considered his life taking any other course. 

They walk hand in hand together to the jeweler’s. Yuri’s gait is light, and imp like, as if his feet fly off the pavement. Otabek holds the door open for Yuri, and before he crosses the threshold into the shop, he simply demands, “whatever fits, right now.” 

So they walk out with one ring made of gold around Yuri’s finger, and another ring made of silver purely for display. The actual ring charged to his card and left to be sized with the jeweler. Otabek doesn’t care in the slightest. He’s waited for this day for so long. It is for this reason Otabek doesn’t understand why Yuri believes that he’s wasted something in his life, hasn’t capitalized on some component of potential. They’ve lived more than most people ever will, and they’ve done it together. That has to count for something.  

“Um,” Yuri spills out the contents of his leather shoulder bag onto the officiant’s desk. Yuri’s nails click across the handsome marble top of the clerk’s desk. Although mother will feel faint when she learns that they marry at city hall, Otabek doesn’t mind. After all, this is Almaty where nothing simple can ever be underwhelming. Their simple marriage at city hall automatically becomes an ornate ceremony at the President’s palace. “Beka.”

Yuri tugs on the elbow of his suit-sleeve. “Babe,” from the way that he pulls on his suit, to the way that he blinks his eyes widely, it’s almost childlike. His mouth flies into a grin, spoiling the joke before he can deliver it, “I left the papers at home. We can’t do it without my visa.” 

Otabek’s mouth pulls into a smile, and he shakes the mound of papers away from all the junk from Yuri’s bag. Expertly, he extracts the red leather passport case. “Tragic."

* * *

 

Yuri feels like his entire head is being held under water the whole time, or he’s trapped in those few blurry minutes of first waking up after too much champagne.  There’s idle small talk between himself, Otabek, and the clerk. She asks how long they’ve been together, and Otabek answers for them, something that sounds like, “twenty-four years.” 

Yuri finds himself focused on his hand in Otbek’s. The skin is looser along his long bony fingers now. Otabek’s still look quite young. Yuri rotates their hands, and he stares at the small mole on the inside of Otabek’s palm. The discolored skin is like some kind of wonderful secret that only Yuri knows about. 

Yuri’s gaze shift to Otabek’s face. A new vial of wrinkle cream has appeared on Yuri’s makeup counter, hidden among all the others that Yuri has already purchased. It’s such an inherently  _ Otabek _ thing to do. Never use Yuri’s, but hide it among Yuri’s things as if he wouldn’t notice. He notices, but he’ll never say a word.  He supposes it’s Otabek’s way of complaining about getting older. Yuri doesn’t see anything different on Otabek’s face. He’d worried a permanent crease in his forehead by the time he was twenty, they both have little lines underneath their eyes now, but little else had changed. 

Beka’s hair is a different story entirely. He started going gray early. Otabek says that his father was gray for as long as he can remember, but that doesn’t mean much. Yuri’s done the math, and Alibek was sixty when Darya gave birth to his first and his only son. Little hairs that stuck out like fine wispy comet trails on the jet black sky of his hair appeared when he was twenty-nine. There are more of them now, and he only knows that soon, maybe not this year, maybe  not next, but certainly no slower than a blink of an eye, the gray hairs will edge out the black. 

Yuri found his first gray last week, it was hidden among the long hairs that he moaned he was too old for, but never could bring himself to cut off. He shrieked, and Otabek said he loved him even more. He didn’t believe it for a second. At the same time, Yuri knows for a fact that he is madly, completely, pop a boner at his desk when Otabek looks at him over his reading glasses, hot for Otabek’s grays. 

The clerk asks him a question, and Yuri supposes that he gives the right answer. He isn’t really sure, but if he‘s fucked it up in some regard, he gets partial credit for getting worked up over his future husband’s body. All he knows is that Otabek’s mouth melts into a smile, and not the twisted pinched one that he tends to coax out of him a dozen or more times a day. No, it’s the one where his teeth spill out over his reluctantly parting lips. It’s the one that starts out agonized, and then becomes less terrifying. It’s the one that Otabek keeps with his silver cufflinks, and polishes before they go out. 

Then Otabek says something, and Yuri knows that the answer is right. 

“Do you take Yuri to be your husband?” 

“Of course.” 

Their first kiss as a married couple is laughable. Far worse and more awkward than when they were kids. Their noses bump, and they’re trying to lean over the high arm rests of the antique chairs in the office. Otabek is trying to be restrained, but desperately wants to surge forward and kiss Yuri likes he means it. Yuri sees it as a necessary evil, kiss in front of her to make it official, and then suck on each other’s faces for real as soon as they walk out of her office. Somehow, between the clink of teeth and mashing of noses, their lips meet in the middle, and just like that they’re married.

* * *

 

“Holy shit,” Yuri breathes when they break for a moment from the kiss. “We fucking did it.” 

Otabek doesn’t respond. He simply slots his mouth back over Yuri’s and pushes the limit of what is decent for city hall. He backs Yuri into one of the long glass windows that overlook the city, and kisses him for what must be the twentieth time since they signed the document, hastily jammed into Yuri’s bag and sealed it with the worst kiss they’ve ever shared. 

“Holy shit,” Yuri repeats. Followed quickly by, “oh my god we forgot the things!” The panic in his voice is real this time.

Otabek extracts the slightly mismatched rings from his pocket, and on the top floor of the President’s Palace, he places a ring on his husband’s hand.

* * *

 

It reminds Yuri of their first “official” date in Helsinki. Sure, Otabek left him with a neck full of hickeys after Welcome to the Madness, but in Helsinki they called it a date. It was clear in the way that they shifted on the bike and brushed up against each other that their bodies were irritated by an itch only the other could scratch. But, it was a date, and so they had to do date things first. 

“Can’t wait to get home,” Yuri  murmurs into Otabek’s ear. 

Otabek squeezes his hand in response, a contradictory  _ stay quiet/keep going _ , as he trades small bills for a small bouquet of flowers from one of the many street vendors that pop up along Republic Square. 

“Fuck my husband.” But time seems to slow down for both of them. He can’t wait, but he will wait given that Otabek has waited for him for so long. He’ll lap up every extra moment he has with Otabek like honey straight from the jar. 

That’s the difference between then and now he supposes. 

“For someone who can’t wait, you’re easily distracted,” Otabek notes as Yuri pulls them southward, in the opposite direction of the bike. Yuri feels a slight pat on his bottom as they meander through the square which is slowly but surely beginning to fill with people getting off of work. Otabek and Yuri walk past the fountains, where he and Otabek ran through and got soaking wet when he spent the summer here in 2020. They go past the  Jeltoqsan monument, where Otabek’s mother made them all take stuffy photos for Otabek’s graduation in August of 2025. 

“I’m gonna fuckin cry like a little bitch,” Yuri admits. 

“My husband, nostalgic?” Otabek opens his mouth to continue, but Yuri stops him. Yuri presses his mouth to Otabek’s for what must be the hundredth time since they left City Hall. It’s just that, with the fountains as backdrop, it looks as if Otabek is rising up out of them like some strange and ethereal thing that makes the world suck less.

Their lips part with a smack, and Yuri speaks before Otabek can. “Don’t fuckin say anything. If you say something it’s going to be like,” he throws his voice in the way he’s deemed suitable for use in mocking Otabek, even though it sounds nothing like him. “The world was made for us Yuri,” and then he pinches his face together in further mimicry of Otabek, “Almaty, Moscow, St. Petersburg, Barcelona, Hasetsu.” 

“That’s pretty good,” Otabek chuckles dryly. “I like it. I wouldn’t say it like that though.” Otabek wraps his arm around his waist, and pulls him close. Yuri can feel the puff of his breath against his face and he can smell the scent of leather and aftershave that is distinctly Otabek, and fuck it’s happening. Otabek is doing that thing that makes him feel like all of that Mr. Darcy romance bullshit in all of Otabek’s books are real, and he never wants it to stop. “The world isn’t enough for us now. We’ve travelled to all of the continents,”

“Never fucked in Antarctica,” Yuri corrects. 

“We’ve seen the edge of what men can do. The world isn’t enough. It’s the universe now.” 

“Mother fucker,” Yuri breathes.

* * *

 

By the time he parks the bike in the garage, it’s clear that Yuri is hurting. He’s wearing the wingtips they bought in St. Petersburg last month. Yuri hasn’t had time to properly break them in yet. It was no small miracle that they were able to walk for so long through the park. “Yuri,” Otabek’s voice begs permission to help. “Let me carry you over the threshold.” 

Yuri grants it. Otabek cannot carry him bridal style. Perhaps Yuri prefers it that way. He carries him on his back, and ignores the way that his own body protests. 

The trek down the hallway is silent. Yuri’s key ring jangles overhead, and he bends down so that Yuri can undo the lock. 

“What I’ve dreamed of for years,” Yuri says with a dreamy sigh that is round around the edges and barbed in the middle. He’s unable to detect where the genuine emotion begins and the sarcasm ends, but it doesn’t matter so much. He deposits Yuri on the bed, throws open the large sliding glass door, and lets the early evening air slide into the bedroom. 

Otabek puts the flowers he bought for Yuri in water, and pops the nicest bottle of champagne they have. Back in the bedroom, he watches Yuri use it to wash down two naproxen. 

“To you,” Yuri cocks a brow at him, “Mr. Plisetsky-Altin.” 

“Would it not be Altin-Plisetsky?” Otabek asks. It’s selfish, but he likes it that way. Yuri putting his name first in the sloppy childlike scrawl with which he uses to sign official documents. 

“Fine, Altin-Plisetsky,” Yuri downs the rest of his champagne. “Otabek-um,” Yuri splays his hand wide across his chest. “Do you feel like…” Otabek toys with the hem of his shirt as he speaks. “Like I dunno. Like it’s just really fucking right.” 

“Doesn’t take getting used to?” Otabek has waited for this moment for a very long time, but he’s apt to agree. “It is, so right.” His lips meet Yuri’s. Yuri tastes of soft vanilla mint lip gloss, the kind that he keeps in a lacquer container in his bag. Yuri smells of the wind and the city. Yuri takes his breath away, then, now, and forever. He slips his tongue into Yuri’s mouth, and Yuri accepts him immediately. 

“Love you,” Yuri breathes into the kiss. 

Otabek kisses him again, “love you more.” 

Otabek peels away Yuri’s shirt, and Otabek begins his long gradual journey across all of the places he loves on Yuri’s body. They aren’t teenagers any more. He can’t remember the last time he left a mark on Yuri’s skin. So, he does it now in quiet obstinance of the slow and silent march forward of time. 

“Careful Beka,” Yuri teases. “It’ll show through my costume.” Yuri rakes his fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

Otabek peppers kisses down Yuri’s collarbones. He wonders if Yuri can feel him smile against his skin. He wonders if Yuri knows that he can feel him watch him, and it feels better than anything else. He grazes Yuri’s nipple with his teeth, and soothes it immediately with his tongue. It’s not routine, it’s perfectly curated knowledge. 

Across the chest, and down his sternum to the stomach. He likes to watch Yuri’s stomach flutter as he dusts kisses across it while he grinds his palm into the crotch of Yuri’s slacks. 

“Get on with it,” Yuri goads. “Your blushing bride awaits.” 

“My bride made me wait twenty years,” Otabek chides playfully. Otabek undoes the button on Yuri’s pants, carefully edges them downward, careful not to jostle Yuri more than necessary. He knows Yuri’s body so intimately, that it’s more than just pleasure that he is mindful of. Otabek considers the way he moves his legs, and the way that he twists his body, and just how long it will take for the medication to kick in. 

“I assure you, it’s worth it.” Yuri’s voice sounds thick like syrup. His smile is dangerous. Black slacks are peeled back to reveal pristine white lace panties. Yuri has always been so good at indulging him. 

“Yura,” It’s all he can say as the lust turns to wonder and melts back into lust once again. He’s been spoiled with the sight of Yuri’s cock in lace over and over and over again, but nuance of this time isn’t lost on him. Bridal white looks so good on Yuri now. He hooks his fingers underneath the band with the intention of kissing over every place where lace scratched against skin.  But first, he  makes sure that the dust scattered across Yuri’s cheeks and chest is burned into his mind for forever. 

“Go on Beka.” 

So Otabek does as his husband tells him. Otabek pulls down the panties, and Yuri lifts his legs up to his chest. Otabek watches his face for any sign of discomfort, but all he’s met with is momentary annoyance. Otabek isn’t looking where Yuri wants him to look, and that’s the greatest mistake of all. 

Otabek’s eyes drift over Yuri’s creamy legs and his cock trapped between his clenched tight thighs. He sees Yuri’s hole red and stretched around his favorite silver plug, and he can feel his jaw drop. “You had that in the whole time?” 

“Um, it’s not just love and dumb luck that makes you keep me around,” Yuri says with a chuckle. “Effort too.” 

From there, Otabek’s plans are thoroughly derailed. He’d planned to go slow. He’d tease Yuri endlessly, and make them both cum at the same time. Instead, he greedily pulls at the plug, only to push it back in and watch Yuri clench around it. 

“Only you could be this much of a fucking asshole on your wedding night,” Yuri says in between breathy gasps.

Only when Yuri has spoken his mind does Otabek remove the plug with a smirk. He positions Yuri on his side, with his knees bent slightly, then Otabek spoons him close. He thrusts inside slowly, and Yuri pushes back against him as he works himself inside. 

It’s no secret that they both love this position. In the past, they liked it because they could be as close as physically possible, almost every inch of skin enclosed by the other. Now, they like it because it’s slow, they can go at it like this as long as their bodies will allow without hurting, or protesting. 

Yuri reaches an arm behind him, and threads his fingers into his hair. Otabek buries his mouth into Yuri’s shoulder, and worries another mark onto his shoulder. He keeps his hands slowly, but constantly in motion on Yuri’s nipples, and trailing down his stomach, and on his cock. 

There’s nothing spoken between them, other than a thousand and one sweet nothings uttered through awkward kisses, and lips against skin, and soft grunts against one another. 

“Yuri,” Otabek can feel it at the base of his cock. He can feel it, every time that Yuri clenches. With it, he breaks the silence between them. He needs Yuri to cum too. 

“I’m close,” Yuri promises through clenched teeth. 

Yuri is velvety tight, and better than any dream. In no time at all Yuri’s spilling into his hand, and he’s spilling into Yuri without a second thought.

* * *

 

Almaty is magic at sunset. Yuri’s has lived through so many nights in the city that were tinged with equal parts strange and amazing that he knows this feeling well.  The sky turns rose gold, and the mountains and the skyscrapers look just a tinge less intimidating as they fade to purple and soften around the edges. 

Maybe some of that magic washes inside of the bedroom while Otabek fucks him stupid. Maybe it’s just built up adrenaline, excitement, and a mutual growing lust for one another, but tonight at the very least, they build the case for not needing pills at all. 

After the first round, Yuri drinks more of the champagne. With the glass in one hand, he teases Otabek’s cock with the other. First testing the weight of his balls in his hand, and then tugging lightly at his cock, just enough to get a reaction. 

It happens slowly, gradually, and each subtle reaction of Otabek’s body promises more. First, Otabek’s eyes flutter shut. He sits with his back against the headboard, and his arms spread wide across the bed. Then, he clenches his jaw. The conversation between them dies down, and Yuri has to coax out every single word. 

“Feels good?”

“Yes.” 

“Getting hard for me again?” 

“Yura,” his tone is exasperated, because  _ of course _ he is. 

“Champagne?”

“No.” 

But Yuri ignores him, takes a sip of the dry beverage, and presses his lips to Otabek’s. The kiss is sloppy, sticky, and when they part, Yuri laps at the left behind drops on Otabek’s lips. Then, Yuri alternates sips from the long stemmed flute with chaste, almost fleeting kisses to the tip of Otabek’s cock. “I’m feeling better now Beka,” as an open invitation. Otabek can give him whatever he’s got, and Yuri can take it. 

What Otabek’s got is far, far more than Yuri expected. Otabek rises from the bed, and picks him up for the second time that day. He struts out onto the balcony and deposits Yuri onto the ground. “People could see us Beka.” The high balcony wall blocks off the people who live in the building across the street. But anyone looking down at them from above could see. Yuri smirks at him. Otabek has always been quite good at saving his impulse, his destructive tendencies, until just the right moment. 

“Then let’s not get caught.” Otabek says as he grabs his hips and thrusts inside. Yuri scrambles to brace himself on the rail. Otabek fists Yuri’s long hair, tilts his head backwards, and drinks the taste of champagne off of his mouth until he’s drunk.

* * *

 

“We’re going to Barcelona though. I think that’s apt.” 

“That’s for your birthday.” Yuri purrs. “We should do a honeymoon too.” Now it is Otabek’s turn to tease, and to coax, and to remind Yuri’s body that it is their wedding night after all. No matter how sore they may be, no matter how tired they really are, their need is stronger. 

“Where would you want to go?” Otabek laps at Yuri’s ear and presses his cock against his thigh. He’s worked open and loose, and it would be so easy to take him again. But Otabek yearns to be selfish. Otabek wants something else. 

“I dunno. “ Yuri presses his swollen lips to his. Their tongues probe each other gently, before pulling back. “Guess it doesn’t matter if it’s with you. Right?” 

“Right,” Otabek says with a roll of his hips. 

“You want me to fuck you?” Yuri asks with a grin.

“Yes.” Otabek rolls over, gets onto his knees, and spreads himself wide for Yuri. 

Yuri circles his rim, applying pressure but never quite pushing inside. “God, you’re so fucking tight, always.” 

At this point in the night, Otabek is completely unwilling to receive a fraction of the torment and the teasing that he’s given to Yuri over the course of the night. He rocks into Yuri’s touch and touches himself while Yuri teases. Yuri finally breaches him with one finger, and quickly works his way up to the next. “You tease me for being uptight,” Otabek first coaxes himself to full attention. He doubts he’ll be able to cum this time around, but he wants, no he demands mastery of his own body. He insists that Yuri can do this to him, and keep having this effect on him for as long as they both want it. “Yet you seem to reap the benefits.” 

Otabek moves, forcing Yuri’s fingers out of him. He pushes Yuri down onto the bed, and drags Yuri to full attention with a combination of his tongue and his hands. Then, he climbs on top of Yuri, and sinks down onto his cock slowly. 

Yuri looks up at him through half lidded, lust addled eyes, “love you Beka.” 

Otabek rocks his body against Yuri slowly. “Love you more.”

* * *

 

“This is how we fucking die,” Yuri whines as he pulls both of their heads back underneath the blankets. He’s used to feeling so sore that the pain grinds from his bones deep into the muscle and makes him want to scream for god, or Otabek, or the sweet embrace of death. 

He’s not used to feeling this way because of sex. 

“We won’t die,” Otabek mouths into his stomach. Yet, he does not move from the bed. If Yuri feels bad, Otabek must feel awful. He had rink time yesterday before his afternoon class. 

“We are though,” Yuri insists. “No food. No water. Stranded.” 

Otabek threads their fingers together. Yuri can feel the catch and the drag of the pair of rings on their fingers. “There’s worse ways to go.” 

“I’m leaving everything to Chainsaw by the way. Princess is disinherited.” 

“Good. She’s a petulant child.” Otabek agrees. 

“Otabek,” The pitch of Yuri’s voice goes higher for a moment. “I’m not afraid that anything will go wrong,” and he hopes that Otabek understands that he’s talking about his appointment so that he does not have to elaborate. “It just feels like this is it. The end of what I’ve always done. Like, forreal.” There was “retirement,” which felt like the end. Then there was his ice show gigs with Victor, but those are fewer and far between, so that felt like the end. Then a new winters sportscaster took on the main role on the Moscow stations, and that felt like the end. Now his body is leveraging the ultimate protest. 

“I know,” Otabek responds simply. He doesn’t say that they have other things to look forward to. He doesn’t say that it’s unreasonable to believe he won’t recover. Otabek lets the fear hang out awkwardly between them. Unlike any other person he’s spoken with, his husband at the very least, acknowledges that his worst fears are justified. It’s nice.  

* * *

 

When it comes to supporting one another, Otabek has got him fucking beat in every possible category. He helps wrangle the cat, and the takes photos for his blog, and he drops the third and fourth place ribbons that Princess wins off to get mounted into shadow boxes. Then, when there’s one more thing to dust around at home, Otabek does that too.  Yuri on the other hand has never felt like he’s ever quite lived up to supporting Otabek beyond a simple “Davai” before competition. 

During Otabek’s graduation ceremony, he really didn’t feel like he did anything beyond stand at his side for stuffy photos. His mother smoothed the long goldenrod colored hood down the back of his robe, and arranged for them to all have lunch together out in the orchard at her home. His sister yelled out over the stuffy private university applauses when his name was called, so much so that Yuri is unsure if his calls were heard. When Otabek was interviewing for the lecturer position, Yuri listened to him give practice lectures. Although he held onto every word that he uttered, he didn’t understand a word of what Otabek was saying. So, when Otabek turned to his audience of one and asked if there were any questions, all Yuri could do is shake his head, “no” from side to side. 

Now that Otabek is back in the rink he feels like he can offer so much more without stepping on Otabek’s toes as a mentor, or a coach, or whatever role that Otabek has taken on this week, but refuses to acknowledge. “This looks good on you,” Yuri comments as he yanks down the lower half of Dastan’s suit, tucking the lines of the leotard into the high slacks of the costume. 

The boy makes an undignified yelping noise, and it makes Yuri’s eye twitch in mild annoyance. This is nothing compared to the abuse that he had to endure when he was on the circuit. “Where’s Otabek?” The boy’s voice desperately tries to hide his discomfort at Yuri’s presence.  

Yuri has to bite back a snarl, because all of Otabek’s significant relationships of choice: JJ, Kamilya, Vera, even  _ himself _ , are with people that are so strange and so broken. It’s difficult to remember that Dastan isn’t purposefully trying to piss him off, he’s just used up all his goddamn energy becoming close to Otabek. Doesn’t yet know how to handle anything else. “We left the fuckin booties in the car,” he gestures down to Dastan’s skates which clash wildly with his costume. Yuri himself hates fabric boots over skates, but Dastan so desperately needs them in this pale colored costume. 

“Hm,” the boy whines.

Yuri reaches for a comb, and drags it through the boy’s sandy brown hair. It catches knots along the way, and Dastan whimpers. “Yuri, that hurts.” 

“Well, if I weren’t here, he’d just let you go out onto the ice with your hair looking like  _ this _ . Isn’t that somehow worse?” 

“There’s nothing wrong with my hair. You just-” 

“I found them,” Otabek’s voice cuts over their squabbling and indirectly tells them both to stop arguing so publicly. He holds the pale blue skate covers in his hands in offering. 

Yuri steps away, leaving the fine tooth comb stuck in Dastan’s thick locks of hair. After all, this is Otabek’s project. He’s just here to support him.  

At the rail, Yuri slips his gloved hand into Otabek’s bare hand. Dastan glides across the ice, and Otabek offers him a simple thumbs up of encouragement. 

Dastan returns it. 

The music begins with a sharp crescendo of violins, and the thunder of timpani drums. Yuri squeezes Otabek’s hand in his. “You’re okay at this Beka,” he teases from the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m not convinced,” Otabek responds dryly as Dastan over extends the entrance of his Axel, and has to make up for it in landing.

The routine finishes. Otabek reluctantly joins his protegee in the kiss and cry. Although Otabek is not on display, Yuri finds that he looks just as tense and uncomfortable as he did when he was a performer.  His body is stiff, his expression is pained, and not a single hint in his body language or behavior gives hint to just how fond he’s grown of the boy.

“I am,” Yuri says under his breath to himself as the score is announced. Although there is one other skater to perform, Dastan’s score is high enough that he cannot get anything less than third place.

* * *

 

“You’re not doing it right.” Otabek takes the long rubber strap from Yuri’s hands, unwraps his foot, and then rewraps it. 

“I’d like to think I know what I’m fuckin doing,” but Yuri blindly accepts the long rubber band when Otabek hands it back to him. “Since I’m the one who actually went to all these shitty physical therapy appointments.” 

“Hm,” Otabek responds. “Otherwise good day?” 

“Yeah,” Yuri comments. “Mila’s oldest is fucking graduating already, so we went out and did all kinds of boring shit. Looked for a venue to have a party, and dresses, and all that dumb shit. “

“Right,” Otabek doesn’t say much else because he knows that as much as Yuri complains, that kind of “dumb shit,” long lunches over the discussion of interior lighting followed by tea are things that Yuri quite likes. 

“What did you do today?” Yuri moves so that Otabek can join him on the sofa. Otabek sits nearby with his palm resting on Yuri’s thigh.  Meanwhile, Yuri keeps his foot in the red rubber band, he quits doing ankle exercises, and moves onto slow extensions of his knee, forward and outward towards the coffee table.

“Nothing much,” ever since his operation, Yuri’s interest in his day to day activities has increased tenfold as if lecturing, grading, and dealing with a petulant young skater are the most interesting things in the world. “We’re doing some Nabokov in my short stories class.” 

Yuri nods. 

“Went to the doctor today.” 

Yuri’s eyes go wide with embarrassment assuming he’d forgotten something important. In turn, Otabek feels a slight pang of guilt. He didn’t tell Yuri about this one. “How fucked are your joints?” 

It’s no secret that Otabek has problems that are identical to Yuri’s. “Not that kind,” his mouth pulls into a smile, and Yuri’s jaw drops open in shock. Otabek procures a small red bottle of pills from his jacket pocket, and passes them to Yuri. 

Yuri drops the rubber band wrapped around his foot. “No fucking way,” he says running his fingertip over the label.

“So take one,” Otabek urges. “If you want.”

“You take one,” Yuri huffs. “They’re yours.” 

“We could both?” Otabek supplies. They could make a night of it. Get takeout and pretend to be teenagers again. They could sleep until nine on a Wednesday morning. He doesn’t teach until one in the afternoon tomorrow. His lecture is already prepared.

Yuri presses the top of the cap and twists it open. He takes a single blue pill between his long thin fingers, lets it rest on his tongue, and then washes it down with a large gulp of San Pellegrino. “This is either going to be the best thing we’ve ever done, or the worst.

Otabek plucks both the bottle of pills and the soda from him and mirrors his actions. “Could say that about a lot of the things we do.” 

For a moment, all they can do is look at one another, as they are unable to hide their mutual lust, curiosity, and shame from the other. Otabek threads his fingers between Yuri’s, and for a moment they both stare at the gold bands on their fingers. “Can I put on a record?” Otabek asks. 

“No,” Yuri responds. 

“Just one dance Yuri, nothing demanding.” 

“Sing for me. Like I’m the stupid fucking cat.” 

“Alright.” Otabek shoves the coffee table to the side. He offers Yuri his hand. Immediately Yuri pulls himself to his chest, and rests his head upon Otabek’s shoulder. The sway of their bodies is less than graceful like this. Yuri is taller, but Otabek leads. His voice sounds dark and rich like the coffee that he brews them every morning for breakfast, but he knows that Yuri can hear the shakiness in his voice. “Fly me to the moon,” he squeezes Yuri close and breathes in his distinct scent. “And let me play among the stars.” Otabek interrupts himself to press his mouth against Yuri’s “ Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.” 

“In  other words, please be true.” Yuri’s voice is shaky, but he joins Otabek nonetheless. Otabek likes the sound. He likes the way Yuri’s voice evens out the cracks in his own. He likes the way that his does the same for Yuri’s. Put them together, and the music is beautiful. “In other words, I love you.”

* * *

 


End file.
